More Poison in Thy Nature
by Cherielynn
Summary: AU fic set in turn of the century England. Sherlock is a scientist who has raised his beautiful, adopted daughter (Mary). John lives next door and has a room overlooking Sherlock's garden. But, John never suspects that Doctor Sherlock Holmes has marked him for a very personal experiment.


More Poison in Thy Nature

by cherielynn503

Summary:

AU fic set in turn of the century England. Sherlock is a scientist who has raised his beautiful, adopted daughter (Mary). John lives next door and has a room overlooking Sherlock's garden. But, John never suspects that Doctor Sherlock Holmes has marked him for a very personal experiment.

Chapter 1

A handsome, fair haired young man, named John Watson, recently arrived in London from the northern region of England to pursue his medical studies at the University of Oxford. John, who had a scant supply of pound notes in his pockets, took lodgings in a high and gloomy chamber of an old manor in a still dignified section of London. The houses along Baker street had seen better days in John's opinion, some having been kept well, others left to gently decay in a bygone splendor. Since his current financial status only allowed for meager lodgings, he felt fortunate that his current location was both affordable and close to the university.

He sighed heartily as he looked around at the sparely furnished room, plain bed and small closet. He wasn't as if he'd brought much with him. He only had a trunk and a battered suitcase with a few well-worn suits. He was 28, and recently discharged from an extended tour of duty in the military. He'd been trained as a field medic but he'd wanted to further his medical studies and was hopeful that an Oxford education would lead him to a prosperous career. He hoped his status in life would be much improved after studying medicine and becoming an Oxford educated doctor. He'd scrimped and saved the money for tuition during his time in the military and he intended to make the most of his life.

After unpacking and settling in, the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, knocked gently on his door.

"All right, Dear?" she asked.

"Yes Ma'am," John said politely.

"There's a common bathroom on this floor and an outhouse just outside the kitchen door. Otherwise use the chamber pot for late night emergencies," and here she smiled behind her hand. "I'll expect you to empty that out yourself. I'm your landlady, Dear, not your chamber maid."

"Yes Ma'am," he repeated and sat heavily on the bed.

"There now. It's not all that bad. You'll get used to being here soon enough. London'll keep you busy. Don't look so gloomy. Take a look out your window and you'll see a sight as lovely as any English garden you're used to up North," she told him waving toward his shuttered window.

John crossed his small room, threw open the wooden shutters, and looked down into what appeared to be a lush and well- appointed garden. It seemed to have been cultivated with exceeding care, plotted with reverence to form and logic, and tended with loving artistry. On first glance John seemed to see both a perfect blend of wild beauty and cold, mathematical symmetry.

"Does this garden belong to the house?" he asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Heavens no! " she answered crossing herself almost absently. "That garden is cultivated by the hands of Dr. Sherlock Holmes, the famous Doctor, who, I warrant you, has been heard of as far as your little village in the north. Some say he distils these plants into medicines that are as potent as a charm. Others say he uses them for strange and unusual experiments." Here, she lowered her voice, "No one knows for sure the extent or the nature of his experiments, but he rarely leaves his gardens or the private laboratory he maintains in the house next door. When he does go out, it's always in a flurry of a long, dark cloak and hurried footsteps. Sometimes, he gets late night visitors who pound on his door. I've often seen the Inspector of Scotland Yard himself calling on Dr. Holmes at all hours."

"Interesting," John said frowning. He wasn't sure what to make of his unusual neighbor. "Thank you for showing me the garden. It's beautiful, and I'm sure it will cheer me up immensely. London can be a pretty dreary city. It's nice to have a little bit of nature so close by."

The older woman smiled warmly at him. "You know," she said with a small twinkle in her eye, "If you're lucky, you may see Dr. Holmes's daughter gathering the strange flowers that grow in the garden."

"Daughter?" John asked.

"It's rumored he keeps young Mary inside the garden's high walls and tutors her himself in the art of his science. She's a bit younger than you and she's said to be as clever as any professor at Oxford. No more than half a dozen people have ever seen her face." She leaned close and whispered to him behind her hand as if she were afraid the man might overhear her, "He keeps her possessively close and doesn't let any young man near her. But, you are in a fortunate position." She let her eyes drift knowingly toward the window.

Now John's eyes searched the garden hoping to spot the elusive creature, his imagination working overtime to picture what she might look like. He smiled back at Mrs. Hudson and she seemed to be satisfied with her narrative about the neighbors. John laughed and dismissed Mrs. Hudson's ramblings. He usually didn't care much for gossip and he didn't want to get too distracted from his studies thinking about the strange Dr Holmes and an unattainable, yet mysterious, beauty next door.

"Well, I'll leave you to get settled, Dear. Dinner's at seven o'clock and if you're late, we'll start without you," she said. She left but not before she straightened the bed covers, and commended John to the protection of the saints.

**Chapter 2**

John sat on his single bed and mused over his situation. University classes were not due to begin for a few days so he had some time to himself. In his coat pocket he had a letter of introduction to one of his father's friends who lived near Baker street. Professor Peter Moriarty, a brilliant professor of Medical Science and well respected doctor at Oxford, had been his father's friend for many years. John knew very little about him except he had an exceptional son named James or Jim as he was commonly known. From what his father had told him, James tried following in his father's footsteps to become a medical man himself but left school to follow a different path; which path it was John never found out. He supposed he'd have to find the Moriaty house tomorrow and get his introductions over with. His father had assured him the only way to get ahead in London was to make connections where ever he could. It seemed old Doctor Moriarty was very keen on "helping his good friend's son" in any way he could.

John soon found himself bored while waiting for dinner and was drawn to look down into the garden beneath his window.

From its appearance, John thought it had to be a botanical garden, like the kind that might have been more fashionable in an earlier time in London. The elaborate house next door might have once been the pleasure-place of an opulent family; for there was the ruin of a marble fountain in the center, sculptured with an artistic flare and intricate design. However now, it appeared so shattered that it was impossible to trace the original design from the chaos of remaining fragments. The water, however, continued to gush and sparkle into the sunbeams as cheerfully as ever.

A little gurgling sound ascended to John's window, and made him feel as if the fountain were an immortal spirit, that sung its song unceasingly. All about the pool into which the water burbled, grew luxurious plants. These botanical beauties seemed to require a plentiful supply of moisture for the nourishment of many gigantic leaves, and, in some instances, magnificently gorgeous flowers.

There was one shrub in particular, set in a marble vase in the midst of the pool, that bore a profusion of golden blossoms, each of which had the luster and richness of a glittering gem. The beautiful plant seemed so alive and vibrant that it could have illuminated the garden, even if there had been no sunshine. Every part of the large, walled space between the houses boasted plants, herbs and shrubs meticulously placed to maximize their growing potential. John fancied that each plant must have its unique, individual properties and that the brilliantly scientific mind of Dr. Holmes must know every one of them.

Some plants were placed in urns, rich with old carving, while others nestled in common garden-pots. Some crept serpent-like along the ground, or climbed on high, using whatever means of ascent was offered them. One plant had wreathed itself round a classic Greek statue and was so happily arranged that it might have served a sculptor for a study. What an unusual sense of style this garden had!

While John stood at the window, he heard a rustling behind a screen of leaves, and became aware that a person was at work in the garden. His figure soon came into view, and showed itself to be a tall, almost emaciated looking man, dressed in a scholar's garb of black. John was struck by his remarkable, face and piercing blue-grey eyes. A thick crop of dark curls framed his angular features and high cheekbones. If this were Doctor Holmes, he looked barely out of his thirties, and had a face marked with intellect and cultivation. However, John couldn't help but think, it could never, even in his youth, have expressed much warmth of heart.

John tried not to stare impolitely out his window into his neighbor's personal business but found himself drawn by the intentness with which this scientific gardener examined every shrub which grew in his path; it seemed as if he was looking into their inmost nature. Dr. Holmes used a small notebook to record his observations and John could only wonder what he wrote down. He looked to be gathering information about why one leaf grew in this shape, and another in that, and wherefore such and such flowers differed among themselves in hue and perfume. What a fascinating person he must be. John itched to simply call out to the man and ask him some questions about his work, but knew it would be highly improper without having been properly introduced so he kept silent and continued watching.

Despite the deep intelligence Dr. Holmes seemed to display, there was no personal intimacy between himself and the plants he so carefully cultivated. On the contrary, he avoided their actual touch, or the direct inhaling of their odors, with a caution that disturbed John. What had Mrs. Hudson said about this man who seemed to cure disease with poisons? It seemed rather than working among healthful and restorative plants, he handled evil malignant entities, such as savage beasts, or deadly snakes, or evil spirits. Even from his distant perch, John thought Dr. Holmes feared to touch the fruit of his own labors so much that they might actually cause him harm.

John remembered his mother's cozy English garden at home. It was nowhere near as grand as the one he looked at now, but it brought back nothing but warm, good memories. His mother's face lit up when she brought in flowers in the spring and summer and felt so proud to be able to contribute to the family dinners with vegetables each fall. It bothered John greatly to see how insecure Dr. Holmes seemed when cultivating his garden, that most simple and innocent of human toils. Was this garden, then, the Eden of the present world?-and this man, with such a perception of harm in what his own hands caused to grow, was he the Adam? Somehow, John suspected something just the opposite.

Dr. Holmes moved to the center of the garden towards the beautiful shrub John had noticed earlier and tried to pluck away a few dead leaves. After only a moment, the thin man backed away and put on a thick pair of gardener's gloves and even took out a mask from his pocket. It was as if all the magnificent beauty of this particular plant concealed a deadlier malice. But finding the task still too dangerous, he drew back, removed his mask and called loudly, "Mary! – Mary!"

At hearing this name, John unknowingly stood up straighter and wished he had his grandmother's pair of opera glasses so he could get a better look. Here at last was the elusive Mary. He took a little inhale of breath when he heard a rich and youthful voice respond, "Here I am, Sherlock." Her voice sounded as rich as a tropical sunset, and made John, though he couldn't say why, think of golden hues of vermillion and honey, and of perfumes heavily delectable.-"Are you in the garden?"

Upon seeing her emerge from under a sculptured doorway leading to the house, Sherlock Holmes stepped forward and took her hand to help her down the step. He appeared every ounce the gentleman as he carefully let her down to where he had been standing.

"How many times, Mary, must I ask you to call me father?" he chided her, his voice a deep rumble.

She dipped her head a little blushing. "Yes, f-father," she responded.  
>John finally got his look at her. She took a few more steps toward the fountain and he noticed she was a young, golden haired girl of about twenty who dressed with as much richness of taste as the most splendid of the flowers. Her long hair had been loosely done up in soft curls that draped softly almost to her waist. She was as beautiful as the day, and with a bloom so deep and vivid that one shade more would have been too much. She looked redundant with life, health, and energy. John let out the breath he'd been holding and thought old Mrs. Hudson had been right in her assessment of this radiant creature. This was no ordinary woman but one whose beauty should be treasured by only those deemed worthy enough to truly understand it. He'd been smitten by her in the time it took to draw and let out a breath. She was magnificent.<p>

Yet, as John looked at her, the impression the fair stranger made upon him was as if here were another flower, the human sister of those vegetable ones, as beautiful as they-more beautiful than the richest of them-but still to be touched only with a glove, or to be approached only with a mask. As Mary came down the garden-path, he observed that she handled and inhaled the odor of several of the plants, which her "father" had most carefully avoided.

"Mary," began Dr. Holmes again, "I need your help. "I'm in the middle of a very important experiment and this plant is an essential part. It has unusual properties..." and here he paused. "Unfortunately, I don't have quite your way this one. I'm afraid if I get too much closer, I might not survive. From now on, I fear, you must take on full responsibility for this plant. You will have to care and tend it by yourself."

"Of course, it would be my pleasure. Are you sure you want to trust me with it?"

"I'd trust no other," he said confidently and patted her awkwardly on her shoulder. John chuckled a bit at the stiff way he seemed to have with the girl. It occurred to him they were probably only ten years apart. It must have been difficult to establish a father/daughter relationship under those circumstances. She couldn't even call him father. She called him Sherlock instead.

Sherlock turned away from the girl and something, it seemed, made him look briefly over his shoulder. To John's surprise, he thought the man with the piercing blue stare and unusual name had seen him watching from his upstairs window. "Christ!" he muttered and ducked his head back into the shadows. The thought that Dr. Holmes had noticed his voyeurism sent a shock wave of both humiliation and even unexplained fear through him. However, he couldn't seem to remove himself from the window and continued his observation of the scene below him. But, Sherlock turned back toward Mary and John breathed out a sigh of relief. So it seemed he hadn't been caught after all.

He heard the rich tones of Mary's voice again as she said with a radiant look on her face, "Yes, my sister, my splendor, it shall be my task to nurse and serve you! Thank you Sher..Father for this chance. I won't let you down. I love this one best. Her fragrance is like the breath of life!" She bent towards the magnificent plant, and opened her arms as if to embrace it.

Then, with tenderness, she busied herself with such attentions as the plant seemed to require plucking the leaves that Sherlock dare not touch with her bare fingers. John from his lofty perch, rubbed his eyes, and almost doubted whether it were a girl tending her favorite flower, or one sister performing the duties of affection to another. It soon grew darker and night began closing in; oppressive exhalations seemed to issue forth from the plants, and steal upward past the open window. John heard a soft knock at his door.

"Dinner," called Mrs. Hudson.

"Coming," said John softly and closed the lattice.

Later that night, he fell asleep and dreamed of a rich flower and beautiful girl. Flower and maiden were different and yet the same, and fraught with some strange peril in either shape.

Chapter 3

The next morning John awoke from his dreams and found that things looked different in the plain light of day. His first impulse was to throw open the window, and gaze down into the garden which his dreams had made so mysterious the night before. He was surprised, and a little ashamed, to find how real and matter-of-fact it proved to be. The fresh morning sun gave a bright beauty to each rare flower and brought everything within the limits of ordinary experience. "It's just a pretty garden after all," he said to himself and decided to get ready to make his trip to see old Doctor Moriarty. He liked that, in the heart of London, he had the privilege of overlooking this lovely spot. It would serve to keep him in communion with Nature.

Neither Dr. Sherlock Holmes nor his brilliant daughter, were now visible and John could not determine how much stock he should put in what he'd seen the night before. But now, he was inclined to take a most rational view of the whole matter.

After breakfast he left to pay his respects to Professor Moriarty. John found the address and knocked on the front door. The man lived in a stately, well-appointed house complete with servants. It turned out the old Professor liked company and invited John to stay to lunch. He spent the next few hours bending John's ear telling him tales about his father as a young man. He had kept John laughing at stories how much his staunch, upstanding father had apparently liked to get drunk during his own university days. With the respectable way his father behaved now, John would have never guessed he'd had such a wild side. After a few glasses of Sherry, the man really opened up. John found himself rather liking the old man and was glad he'd decided to pay a visit. However, just as they were about to sit down to a well prepared and delicious looking lunch, Professor Moriarty looked up from his conversation at the table and suddenly grew serious. A dark haired, younger man had appeared in the dining room doorway.

"Father," the sudden apparition said.

"James," the old man replied. "I didn't know you'd returned. Join us for something to eat." He motioned for one of his footman to add another plate to the table. "John, I'd like you to meet my son, James."

John stood and shook hands with the younger Moriarty. "A pleasure," he said meaning to give the hand a brief, masculine shake. James held on to John's hand longer than was normally appropriate for a handshake before letting go. If John wasn't mistaken, he thought he felt the man's finger gently cross the middle of his palm before releasing his hand. His large, soft brown eyes locked with John's blue ones for a moment and John felt an uneasy feeling settling over him. When James smiled at him, John thought he looked like a very satisfied shark with way too many teeth. Professor Moriarty either didn't notice or was simply used to his son's odd mannerism.

"How lovely to have company, Father," he crooned and sat opposite John.  
>While the old man had been friendly and genial only moments ago, he now seemed to withdraw into himself and tucked into his food while now ignoring the both of them. John noticed the change in the atmosphere and tried to focus on finishing his fish. The silence soon became uncomfortable but James seemed to revel in it. He looked avidly at his father and back to John as if searching for clues to what they'd been speaking about before his arrival.<p>

Finally, John cleared his throat and set about trying to stir up a conversation, "Professor, since you've spent so much time at the university, I was wondering if you've ever heard of a man named Sherlock Holmes?"

The old man dropped his fork into his plate with a clatter and said with some emotion, "Why do you speak of that..that man?"

"I was just curious," John tried to say and wondering what he'd done wrong. "I've rented a room next door to his house and my window looks down into his garden. I saw him working in it and wondered about him."

"I'm not the kind of man," said the old Professor in a serious tone, "who withholds well-considered praise of a physician so eminently skilled as Dr. Holmes, but I couldn't live with myself if I were to permit such a fine young man as yourself, the son of one of my best friends, to develop the wrong idea about a man who could end up holding your very life in his hands."

John began to wonder just who Dr. Holmes was to stir up this kind of passionate response in the old man.

"The truth is," Doctor Moriarty went on, " Sherlock Holmes has as much science as any member of the faculty-with perhaps myself being the one single exception-in London. But there are certain grave objections to his professional character."

"And what are they?" asked John.

And here young James finally spoke, "Are you suffering some serious illness that you'd need to know about that particular physician?" He watched John carefully for his answer arching one fine eyebrow in anticipation of his answer. John thought he detected a sense of amusement in James' expression as well as avid interest in what he would say next.

"No, I'm fine," he said. "I just saw them in the garden working with the plants…"

And here James leaned across the table with a hungry expression, "So you've seen her, then?"

At this, the old professor snorted. He ignored his son's question and said, "I know that man, Holmes," and John noticed he dropped the professional title of doctor from the man's name. "While he is a brilliant man without peer in his field, he cares far more for science than for mankind. His "work" is the most important thing in the world to him. His patients are interesting to him only as subjects for some new experiment. He would sacrifice human life, his own among the rest, or whatever else was dearest to him, for the sake of adding so much as a grain of mustard-seed to the great heap of his accumulated knowledge."

"I do admit, I got that same impression," John replied, mentally recalling the cold and purely intellectual aspect of Dr. Holmes as he tended to his garden. And yet something about Sherlock Holmes tugged at John's sense of his own scientific curiosity and wonder. He remembered wanting to call out to the man to ask him about his work. Even as the Professor spoke about him, John longed to find out more about him.

While it was obvious the Professor seemed to dislike Sherlock Holmes, John pressed the matter a bit further. "Isn't that a sign of a noble spirit? Are there many men in this world capable of so spiritual a love of science?"

"God forbid," answered the Professor, somewhat testily-"at least, unless they take sounder views of the healing art than those adopted by Holmes. It is his new "pet" theory, that all medicinal virtues are comprised within those substances which we term vegetable poisons. These he cultivates with his own hands, and is said even to have produced new varieties of poison, more horrible than even Nature could devise.

That the man does less mischief than might be expected, with such dangerous substances, is undeniable. In fact, I've heard stories of how some of his scientific discoveries have helped solve crimes and save lives. There was a time that Scotland Yard all but depended on his brilliant deductions and discoveries. But, he has left that work and descended into his new obsession." Here the professor just shook his head and began muttering to himself.

They finished the rest of the meal listening to his grumblings. James made eye contact with John only at the end. He stared pointedly at John and then jerked his head to one side. He read the motion as a sign James wanted to speak to him privately outside the dining room.

He excused himself to the Professor, and thanked him for the conversation and meal. The old man merely waved his hand and nodded his head. "I'll see you at school. Meanwhile, stay as far away from Dr. Holmes as you can!" he warned. John then took his leave and followed James out of the room.  
>No sooner did John get into the hallway outside the dining room than James had him pinned to the wall by his shoulders.<p>

"What are you playing at?" John asked in shock. "Let go!"

James grinned at him and once again John was struck at the wide, too toothy, grin of the man. "Not until you tell me about…her. I want to know everything."  
>John pushed the man away violently, "There's nothing to tell. I saw her from my window for a few minutes last night." Nothing about James seemed right, suddenly. He was too excited and his wide, brown eyes gleamed with an intense fever now. He breath came in sharp shallow gasps.<p>

"Tell me!" he said trying to keep his voice down so his father couldn't hear.

"Does she seem normal to you?" And now he tried to calm himself down, to speak to John rationally.

The unbidden image of Mary inhaling the fragrance from the golden-flowered shrubbery came into his mind and he shuddered. Even though his rational mind sensed that James was right, his heart suddenly quickened and he felt protective of this beautiful girl he didn't even know. He wasn't going to tell James Moriarty anything about either Dr. Holmes or Mary.

"I'm leaving now." John said through clenched teeth. He wanted to be away from this house and back to his own quiet rooms. He couldn't make any sense of all he'd learned in the last few minutes and needed to think. He pushed past James and headed out the front door. James made no move to restrain or follow him.

Chapter 4

Notes:

Don't worry, the next chapter introduces Sherlock!

John returned to his lodgings in an agitated state partially due to the large amounts of Sherry he'd consumed and his interaction with James Moriarty. His brain swam with strange fantasies in reference to Doctor Holmes and the beautiful Mary. On his way back to his room, he happened to pass by a florist's, and he bought a fresh bouquet of flowers thinking to cheer up his dreary room.

When he got back to his chamber, he again seated himself near the window. He tried to stay hidden by a the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall, so that he could look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered. He didn't want either Mary or Dr. Holmes to know he'd turned into a "peeping tom."

The garden beneath was empty. The strange plants basked in the sunshine, and now and then nodded gently to one another. In the midst, by the shattered fountain, grew the magnificent shrub, with its glittering golden gems clustering all over it; they glowed in the air, and gleamed back again out of the depths of the pool. John was struck again at the vibrant radiance of the plant.

At first he saw nothing but emptiness. Soon, however,-as John had half hoped, half feared, would be the case,-a figure appeared beneath the antique sculptured portal, and came down between the rows of plants. Mary appeared and inhaled their various perfumes, as if she were one of those beings of old classic fable, that lived upon sweet odors. John was startled at how much more her beauty exceeded his memory of it; she was so brilliant that she glowed in the shadowy sunlight. "God, she's lovely," John whispered to himself, and noticed her radiance almost seem to illuminate the more shadowy sections of the garden path.

Hidden deep in his shadow, John could see more of her face than on the previous night and was struck by its expression of simplicity and sweetness. She seemed like an innocent, free loving spirit. His heart filled again to think she might be both beautiful and sweet of nature. She moved closer to the ancient fountain and John again imagined the connection between the beautiful girl and the gorgeous shrub that hung its gem-like flowers over the fountain. Mary seemed to have indulged this resemblance by wearing a delicate dress with a high empire waist that matched the delicate blossoms of her favorite shrub in both arrangement and hues. She looked like the living embodiment of the flowers themselves. John could only sigh in absolute agreement with her fashion choices. They suited her beautifully.

Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms with abandoned passion and embraced its branches. Her face pressed in such an intimate way that her features were hidden in its leaves, and her glistening curls intermingled with the flowers.

"Give me your breath, my sister," exclaimed Mary, "I feel faint breathing common air! And, give me this flower of yours, which I will take with gentlest fingers from the stem, and place it close beside my heart."

With these words, the beautiful girl plucked one of the richest blossoms of the shrub, and was about to fasten it in her bosom. But now, unless John's lunchtime wine had bewildered his senses, an unusual incident occurred. A small orange colored lizard chanced to creep along the path, just at Mary's feet. It appeared to John that a drop or two of moisture from the broken stem of the flower dripped on the lizard's head. He couldn't be sure at that distance but he saw the reptile curl itself into a ball, and then lay motionless, dead in the sunshine.

Mary observed this remarkable phenomenon, and crossed herself, sadly, but without surprise; nor did she hesitate to put the fatal flower in her bosom. There it blushed, and almost glimmered with the dazzling effect of a precious stone. It added the one appropriate charm to her dress that nothing else in the world could have supplied. But in his window, John shrank back, and murmured and trembled.

"Am I awake? Did I just see that?" said he to himself. "What is she?-beautiful, or terrible?" Was it knowledge of this strange behavior that had prompted that mad look in James Moriarty's eyes when he'd asked, "Does she seem normal to you?" What did the man know?

John had to close his eyes for a moment to get himself under control. It's just a coincidence, he thought. There is no connection between the flower and the lizard's death. Perhaps that type of plant is deadly to it's kind. John didn't want to make any leaps he couldn't prove. But again, his eyes strayed back to the window and he sought out Mary's form.

She now strayed carelessly through the garden, approaching closer beneath John's window so that he had to thrust his head out of its shadowy concealment in order to continue his intense observation that she excited in him. At this moment, a beautiful butterfly fluttered over the garden wall. It had wandered through the barren city and found no flowers among the antique houses of men, until the heavy perfumes of Dr. Holmes' shrubs had lured it from afar. This winged brightness seemed to be attracted by Mary, and fluttered about her head. Now John decided, his eyes must be deceiving him. He saw that while Mary was gazing at the insect with childish delight, it grew faint and fell dead at her feet;-its bright wings shivered once from no cause that he could see, unless it was from her breath. Again the angelic creature crossed herself and sighed heavily, as she bent over the dead insect.

John instinctively drew back again and the movement drew Mary's eyes to the window. There she beheld a handsome, fair haired young man whose large blue eyes softened when she looked at him. He knew he must look like a being who hovered in mid-air. Scarcely knowing what he did or how to react to her discovering him watching her, he threw down the bouquet which he had been clutching this whole time in his hand.

"My lady," he said, "here are some, eh, flowers." He felt like a fool. The girl had a whole garden of flowers at her disposal what could she possibly want with his dead ones? But, it was done now. " I'd love it if you'd wear one of mine as well!" he finished lamely.

She smiled and blushed. "Thank you," she replied, with a voice rich like a gush of music. She had a mirthful expression half childish and half woman-like. "I accept your gift, and would give you this precious golden flower; but if I toss it into the air, it won't reach you. So," and here she giggled prettily. "You'll have to make do with my thanks." Despite all his misgivings over the things he'd just witnessed, John nearly melted with happiness. She was as sweet as he'd hoped she'd be.

She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then in a sudden fit of shyness turned and swiftly left the garden and passed back through the archway to her home. But, as she was on the point of vanishing beneath the sculptured portal, John thought he saw his beautiful bouquet already beginning to wither in her grasp. No, he had to be imagining it; there was no way he could possibility distinguish a faded flower from a fresh one, at such a great distance.

Chapter 5

University studies kept John busy for the next few weeks. He carefully avoided the window that looked into the garden. One part of him felt as if something ugly and monstrous might blast his eyes, if he were betrayed into a single glance. He thought if he just avoided the whole matter altogether, it might just resolve itself into the ordinary and normal. His rational mind understood that an explanation existed for what he'd seen and he'd eventually discover it for himself. He thought about leaving these rooms and finding another rental but then laughed at himself. He was in no real danger! The only danger he might be in would be falling hopelessly in love with an ideal he'd created from a few brief glimpses. He just needed to get on with the business of obtaining his degree and leave the mystery of the girl and garden alone.

He poured himself into his studies and put the lovely Mary out of his thoughts as best he could. After a month of settling into the routine of lectures, and studying, he found himself in need of acquiring a part time job to help him settle living expenses. After he put the word out he was looking, one of his classmates handed him a newspaper advertisement. Wanted: A lab assistant. Apply in person this Friday 2:00 pm. Medical students only!

It listed a room at Bart's hospital as an address. When John arrived, ten minutes early, he was startled to find several young men including Jim Moriarty skulking around waiting for an interview. This had been the most promising position he'd encountered and he hoped he had a chance at the position. He really needed the money. He nodded at the others milling around and tried not to make eye contact with Jim. He might have to compete for this position with the man but he didn't have to make small talk with him. Unfortunately, Jim didn't stay away from John.

"Hello Johnny!" Jim approached him crooning in a sing-song. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I thought only medical students could apply," John responded uneasily.

"Ooo, competitive now, are we? Dr. Holmes will like your spirit, I dare say."

"Holmes?" John asked incredulously. "This is a position as his assistant?"

"You didn't know….How delicious," Jim said smiling wickedly. "I thought for sure you'd be here for the same reason I am."

John really didn't want to engage with this mad man but he felt curiously compelled to know what the "reason" might be. "What?"

"Her…"

At this moment the door to the lab burst open and Dr. Holmes appeared in the hallway. He wore a long black frock coat cut with a full skirt. Up close, John could see his pale skin, piercing blue-green eyes and cold expression mingling in a way that sent chills up his spine. For some reason, he felt like a rat caught in the sudden beam of a light.

Before any of the dozen young men could even begin introducing themselves or speak, Sherlock Holmes raised one long arm and pointed at each one.

"You, out…You, no….You, you barely know how to take care of yourself, how do you expect me to allow you to take care of my precious plants. You, could kill a cactus living in desert. No, no, no…" He walked down the hallway imperiously dismissing each person with barely a glance. Until he stopped at John and Jim who stood only a few feet apart from each other.

"I'm John Watson," John ventured extending his hand. "I'm here to apply as your lab assistant." In for a penny….he thought at this point. It seemed fate had thrown him in the path of this arrogant Doctor and there may be no escaping it. If he were offering a paying wage, then John would just have to put up with him.

Holmes gave him a searching look, and John felt he was being taken apart bit by bit and put back together in some new and intimate way. Dr. Holmes slowly reached his own hand out and shook. "You live next door from me and you're studying at Oxford. You've acquired some medical experience abroad, in the military possibly Iraq or Afghanistan? You seem….acceptable."

John was both relieved and astounded. He really thought he'd been so clever on that first night, "Yes, that's amazing. How did you guess?"

"I never guess, I observe," Dr. Holmes said briskly. "And you?" he now turned that searching gaze onto Jim. John felt more than a twinge of jealousy at the thought that Holmes might not give him the position and for more than one reason. The thought that he might encounter Mary certainly had its appeal, but now he remembered how curious he'd been about Dr. Holmes' work and how much he'd wanted to call out to the man on that first night.

"I'm James Moriarty, Jim if you'd prefer." And, he also offered his hand.

However, Dr. Holmes merely looked at it without taking it and said, "Ah, I know your father!" And he nodded. I'll give you both one day to prove your usefulness and after that, I'll decide which one I'll keep. Come along." With that, he turned on his heel and walked away from the two men toward an outside door.

"We're starting now?" John asked but Jim was already following the tall, impossible man and John had to trot to keep up.

Sherlock Holmes led them back to his house and to his personal laboratory.

Chapter 6

John soon found himself retracing his steps back towards his own rooms. Dr. Holmes moved so quickly he was already gone from view. John was glad he already knew the way. He decided he should probably pick up the pace; it wouldn't do to be tardy on his first day.

Even though he was only a few moments behind, John arrived to find Jim and Dr. Holmes waiting impatiently for him on the front step. "Come directly through to the lab, gentlemen," the tall figure said briskly. "We'll begin immediately."

John soon found himself in a leather apron and a pair of thick gloves potting several small seedlings into clay troughs. Dr. Holmes showed them both how to mix special feeding potions to pour over the roots. "Be careful not to inhale as you pour these mixtures," the tall, intense man warned. He hovered over them both obsessively watching each move they made with a keen interest.

"Watch it, you fool!" he hissed as Jim poured a little of the mixture over his bare arm. Dr. Holmes tisked at him, got a water soaked flannel and wiped the viscous fluid off his arm but it left a bright, angry looking streak on Jim's skin. "If you don't take care, you can't possibly help me," he barked.

After that, John moved with deliberate motions, took meticulous notes and used his steady hands to pour out measured amounts. Dr. Holmes looked pleased with his efforts. They both worked steadily for hours and John's shoulders ached with tension at having to be so precise. His head swam a bit from some of the noxious fumes he'd breathed in and he began to wonder just how long he'd be able to last in this working environment.

Jim finished his appointed task and sidled up to him while he tried to carefully pour the last of the special plant brew into his current project. "Careful Johnny boy," he half-whispered.

"Go away," John hissed to him annoyed at his ploy to get him to mess up. "I've got to concentrate!"

"Not as much as the good Doctor is concentrating on you, Johnny."

"What?" John asked finally finishing without spilling a drop.

"He's been watching you like hungry lionesses all afternoon. I don't think he's really even looked at me. I think we both know who's got the position, don't we?"

Had he been? John had been so busy trying to do everything well, he hadn't really noticed. At this John glanced around to find Sherlock Holmes working at the other end of the lab. Currently, he seemed focused on something in his microscope and didn't seem to be aware of either of them.

"I think he is making a study of you, Johnny Boy. I know that look of his. It is the same cold look I've seen him use today while he bent over a bird, a mouse, or a butterfly, that he used in some experiment that he has killed by the perfume of one of his tormented flowers. It's look as deep as Nature itself, but without any of Nature's warmth of love. John Watson, I will stake my life upon it, you are the subject of one of Sherlock Holmes experiments!"

John huffed in exasperation. This was the babbling of a man he already knew might be mad but as he continued to look at Sherlock Holmes, the man looked up and his piercing eyes met John's. There was a moment of intense electricity that passed between them and it hit him right in the pit of his stomach. Now that he thought about it John had seemed to be the focus of most of Dr. Homes attention today. If he had to guess, he felt sure he'd be offered the position.

"And, we haven't seen pretty Mary the whole time we've been here. I wonder if he keeps her locked in her room all day?"

John had wondered the same thing as he worked. Once, a soft music had drifted into the lab and he'd heard a young, sweet voice singing to the accompaniment of a piano. Jim had looked up at the sound, his eyes shinning bright with interest until it finally faded away.

"Why are you so interested in her?" he asked. Besides the obvious, she was stunningly beautiful, he wondered how James could even know about her.

"She and I used to know each other as children. Her father, Mycroft Holmes, and my father used to be associates. The man disappeared ten years ago and left little Mary in Sherlock's charge. He's had her hidden away ever since and I've always wondered what happened to her. There are some strange rumors about Mary and I want to get to the bottom of them. If half of what I hear is true….." here he trailed off.

As John listened to Jim's words, he again grew furious. "You shouldn't listen to stupid gossip. Is that why you're here, to get at Mary?"

"Aren't you?" Jim insinuated. "Or maybe you're here for the good Doctor Holmes?"

John bristled angrily but before he could reply Dr. Holmes interrupted them, "Are you two finished?"

"Yes," Jim said and John now noticed it had grown full dark outside. Dr. Holmes sounded tired an his voice was deeper than it had been, almost intimate. He got up from his stool and crossed over to the two men.

He took a few moments to look over their work. He leaned over each pot and trough, hands behind his long, lean back and examined each planting.

"James, this plant has been overfed. And the roots of this one, and here he thrust one of his long, gloved fingers into the soil of another, "has been covered too high. I'm afraid I'm going to give the position to Mr. Watson."

James smiled too broadly, eyes still shinning in that unearthly way, bowed his head and said, "Of course, you'd want only the best, Dr. Holmes. Perhaps, I can be of assistance in some other manner someday…" He looked pointedly at John, "Enjoy your time with Dr. Holmes, Mr. Watson, you couldn't ask for a better mentor." At this he took his coat off the peg by the door. "I'll see myself out," he said and left.

Now Dr. Holmes turned the full force of his gaze on John. "I'll need you for at least three hours every day. I know you have classes but I'll expect you to tend to your duties here and in the garden every afternoon. You'll help my daughter, Mary. She can show you your duties."

"Thank you," John said and smiled. He didn't know what else might be required of him this evening so he stood there a moment longer, hesitating. "I'll see you tomorrow after classes, then?"

"Yes, John. And I'd prefer it if you'd call me Sherlock from now on." And here he gave John a small smile. It was unexpected and John found himself thinking that Sherlock, as he now had to remember to call him, was an extraordinarily handsome man when he smiled.

John removed his own coat from the peg and followed James out of the lab and towards the front door of the house. Along the way, he passed the archway that led to the garden. As he glanced toward it, he saw the gleaming figure of Mary standing in the middle framed beautifully. He inhaled sharply at the sight, she'd been looking out toward the night and she turned her head over her shoulder to look at him.

This was the closest he'd been to her and her beauty up close took his breath away. He ducked his head trying not to stare and quickly left the Holmes' house.

Chapter 7

John left the Holmes' house in a daze. He didn't feel like going back to his dreary rooms just yet so he strolled slowly along. At length, he found himself at the door of his lodgings. As he crossed the threshold, he was met by old Mrs. Hudson, who smirked and smiled, as if she wanted to attract his attention. Still lost in thoughts about the Holmes family, he sighed at went to find out what she could possibly want from him.

"Mr. Watson!" she whispered still smiling. She looked to John like a grotesque carving in wood, darkened by centuries-"Listen, Mr. Watson! There is a private entrance into the garden!"

"What did you say?" exclaimed John, now really interested. "A private entrance into Doctor Holmes' garden!"

"Hush! hush!-not so loud!" she whispered, putting her hand over his mouth. "Yes, into the Doctor's garden, where you may see all his fine shrubbery," and here she arched one eyebrow suggestively. "Many a young man in London would give gold to be admitted among those flowers."

John put a piece of gold into her hand. "Show me the way," he said.

For just a moment, John's logical mind asserted itself. Some part of his brain wondered if Sherlock himself might be behind Mrs. Hudson's sudden helpfulness to gain access to Mary; but, even though the thought disturbed him, he found he didn't care. The instant he was aware of the possibility of approaching Mary, it seemed an absolute necessity of his existence to do so. It didn't matter whether she were angel or demon; he was now drawn helplessly within her sphere.

As he followed after his old landlady, John had a sudden doubt about whether his intense interest in Mary was not just some delusion. Was he really so much in love with this ethereal creature that he would put himself into this risky position? He had the suspicion that Dr. Holmes would be furious if he found him trespassing like this into his garden, not to mention having anything to do with his precious daughter. He wondered if this whole situation wasn't just the fantasy of his fevered brain and not connected at all with his heart!

He paused, hesitated almost turned back-but again went on. His elderly guide led him along several obscure passages, and finally undid a door. As she opened it, he saw and heard the sound of rustling leaves, with the broken moonshine glimmering among them. John stepped through and entanglement of a shrubbery that wreathed its tendrils over the hidden entrance, and he stood beneath his own window, in the open area of the garden.

Now that he found himself finally here, in the garden, he felt calm and even coldly self-possessed. For so long he'd anticipated speaking to Mary, of standing face to face with her. He wanted to bask in the oriental sunshine of her beauty, and snatch from her full gaze the mystery which he deemed the riddle of his own existence. The moon was full this evening and there was plenty of light. He took some time to look around the garden both in hope of discovering Mary and in mortal dread of being discovered by Sherlock. Disappointed when he saw no one, he decided to take a closer look at the plants.

Each plant's gorgeousness seemed fierce, passionate, and even unnatural. There was no shrub or bush John would find growing wild in any forest. They looked artificially blended together. Upon careful examination, John thought that none of these could have been of God's making, but the monstrous offspring of one man's depraved fancy, glowing with only an evil mockery of beauty. They were all probably the result of experiment. Sherlock had succeeded in mingling these twisted plants into a poisonous paradise possessing the questionable and ominous character that distinguished the whole growth of the garden. John only recognized two or three plants in the collection, and those he knew for sure to be poisonous. While his mind was engaged in looking at the strange plants, he heard the rustling of a silken garment, and turning, saw Mary emerging from beneath the sculptured portal.

John hadn't considered whether he should apologize for his intrusion into the garden or just act like he had every right to be there. He was, after all, employed to work with these plants. But Mary's manner placed him at his ease. She came lightly along the path, and met him near the broken fountain. There was surprise in her face, but brightened by a simple and kind expression of pleasure.

"You are a connoisseur in flowers," said Mary with a smile, alluding to the bouquet which he had flung her from the window. "It is no wonder that the sight of my father's rare collection has tempted you to take a nearer view. If he were here, he could tell you many strange and interesting facts about the nature and habits of these shrubs, for he has spent a life-time in such studies, and this garden is his world."

"And yourself, lady, "observed John, "if what I've heard is true-you know just as much."

Mary smiled and shyly bowed her head, "Is that what they say? I've learned as much as I can from Sher..Father, but I'm not nearly as good as he is. I don't think anyone knows as much as he does."

Being near her made John grow bolder, " Would you be my instructress? I promise I'll be an excellent student."

"Do people say that I am skilled in my father's science of plants?," asked Mary, with the music of a pleasant laugh. "How funny! No, even though I have grown up among these flowers, I don't know much more of them than their hues and perfume; and sometimes, I would like to rid myself of even that small knowledge. But don't believe these stories about my science. Believe nothing of me except what you see with your own eyes."

"Mary," and here John's voice grew soft. "Must I believe all that I've seen with my own eyes?" He remembered all the strange scenes that had made him want shrink away with fear and suspicion. "I will believe nothing about you except what comes from your own lips."

It appeared Mary understood him. She blushed deeply, but looked full into John's eyes, and responded to his gaze of uneasy suspicion with a queen-like haughtiness.

"I would hope so!" she replied and then changed her whole bearing to a defeated slump. "I hope you can forget whatever you may have heard from anyone else," she in a half-whisper dropping her head. John wanted to lift her chin up and force her beautiful brown eyes to look at him but didn't dare touch her.

"Of course. Now that I've met you and we're going to work together, I know we'll be great friends," John responded feeling lighter than he had. How could he ever have doubted her? He smiled at her and she raised her head to smile back at him.

Now that John was more at ease, he noticed a rich and delightful fragrance in the air around her. It smelled both wonderful and powerful but he found himself reluctant to draw much of it into his lungs. It might be the odor of the flowers. Could it be Mary's breath? Maybe that was what embalmed her words with a strange richness, as if by steeping them in her heart? A shadow of doubt passed over John, and flitted away; buy, he only had to gaze into the beautiful girl's eyes and somehow into her transparent soul, and felt no more doubt or fear.

Almost as if sensing the changing mood between then, Mary brightened and seemed take great delight in speaking to John. She blushed, twirled a ringlet of hair around one perfect finger and laughed at everything he said. John knew enough of women to know she liked him as well. As they talked about trivial things, John got the impression she was like someone who had been stranded on a desert island for years. Evidently her experience of life had been confined to the limits of that garden. She talked now about matters as simple as the daylight or the summer clouds, and now asked questions in reference to the city, or John's distant home, his friends, his mother, and his sisters; questions indicating such seclusion, and such lack of familiarity with the modern times, that John responded as if to a child.

Even though she appeared so innocent, John loved being with her. His last few attempts at romance hadn't gone so well. He'd never had trouble attracting women, it was keeping them in a committed relationship he'd hadn't been able to do. His wandering nature had always led him to seek the next adventure in life.

But Mary's amazing spirit gushed out before him like a fresh spring that was just catching its first glimpse of the sun. While they spoke under the moonlight, her musical voice brought to his mind fantasies of a gem-like brilliancy, as if diamonds and rubies sparkled upward among the bubbles of the fountain. The whole time he was with her, he had a strong sense of wonder that he should be walking side by side with the being that had so captured his imagination. He had idealized both the terror and wonder of her. The thought occurred to him that the lurid combination of both her innocent beauty and possibility of terrible danger attracted him in a much deeper way than he'd ever known himself to want a woman before.

But such reflections were only momentary; the effects of her charm had already wormed their way into his heart.

As they talked, they strayed through the garden, and now, after many turns among its avenues, came to the shattered fountain, beside which grew the magnificent shrub with its treasury of glowing blossoms. A fragrance came from it, which John recognized as identical to the flowery perfume that radiated from Mary's breath, but much more powerful. As Mary looked at her beloved plant, she pressed her hand to her heart as if it were throbbing suddenly and painfully.

"For the first time in my life," she murmured, addressing the shrub, "I had forgotten you!"

Remember," said John with a smile, "you once promised to reward me with one of these living gems for the bouquet which I flung at your feet once. Permit me now to pick one now to remember this night by."

He made a step towards the shrub, with extended hand. But Mary darted forward, uttering a shriek that went through his heart like a dagger. She caught his hand, and drew it back with the whole force of her slender figure. John felt her grasp thrilling through his being.

"Don't touch it!" she exclaimed in an agonized voice. "It is fatal!"

Then, hiding her face, she fled from him, and vanished beneath the sculptured portal. As John followed her with his eyes, he looked up to see Sherlock who had been watching the scene, he didn't know for how long, within the shadow of the entrance.

Chapter 8

Now that John was alone in his chamber, the image of Mary came back into his passionate thoughts. His view of her contained a mixture of danger, blended with the tender warmth of girlish womanhood. She was human and her soft, sweet nature showed nothing but gentle and feminine qualities; she was worthy of being worshipped.

The terrible proofs of her frightful abilities were now either forgotten, or, made John think her so much more unique than any woman he'd ever known. Whatever thoughts about her that had looked ugly, were now beautiful. He fell fitfully asleep and dreamed about a beautiful flower named Mary tended by her intense gardener, Sherlock.

He slept through the night and woke to the morning light streaming through his window. The first thing he noticed was a terrible sense of pain. After waking up, he became aware of a burning and tingling agony in his hand-in his right hand-the very hand which Mary had grasped in her own, when he was on the point of picking one of the gem-like flowers. On the back of that hand there was now a purple print, like that of four small fingers, and a slender thumb upon his wrist.

Oh, how stubbornly does love-or even that cunning doppelganger of perceived love which flourishes in the imagination-hold its faith, until the moment comes, when it is doomed to vanish into thin mist! John wrapped a handkerchief about his hand, and wondered what evil thing had stung him, and soon forgot his pain in a fresh daydream of Mary.

He knew he should attend classes that morning but he felt too anxious to settle himself into a dreary lecture hall and listen to endless prattle about bones and blood vessels. He wasn't expected in the garden until that afternoon so he decided to burn off his fevered state by going for a rapid walk through the streets of London. He started off near his residence but soon found himself walking further and further away from his room. He had just decided he'd walked far enough when he found himself gripped by his upper arm

"John Watson," he recognized the voice and had to repress a strong wave of repulsion at the sound. He faced the person who had such a strong grip on his arm and felt like a person who has been woken from a sound sleep. Jim Moriarty stared back at him in wide-eyed anticipation. "You look absolutely alarming, my Dear!"

He pulled himself from Jim's grip and said, "I'm not your Dear….Look, leave me alone. Why do you keep…?"

"I'm just interested in your well-being. You know our fathers were such good friends and all," he interrupted. "How was last night?" the intense gleam in his eyes caused John to take a step back.

"I'm not telling you anything. I got the job and you…you just need to back off!" he shouted finally.

"I will, John. Just as soon as I find out about Mary. It just so happens I know a few people," and here he adjusted the lapels on his coat, "who would give a great deal to know a woman like her."

"Like what?" John couldn't help asking. But, he suddenly didn't want to know. Part of him began screaming…. Don't ask and he won't tell you.

"Hmmmm….still playing innocent, Johnny Boy? Well then, I'll let you stew in your own juices a while longer then, shall I?"

"Just leave me alone," John repeated and turned back the way he'd come.

"I'll keep in touch," Jim called after him. "Oh, and I'll let father know you're working with Dr. Holmes. He'll been so thrilled to know."

John groaned inwardly. The old man had expressly asked him to stay away from Sherlock and here he was working for the man. Well, he might have to kiss that "connection" goodbye and good riddance if it meant he didn't have to speak to Jim again.

Over the next few weeks, John worked alongside Mary in the wild, dangerous garden of Sherlock Holmes. At first he only helped to water and feed the marvelous plants. It seemed Sherlock only trusted him with the simplest of jobs, but after a while, he began to instruct him in some of the secrets that went into creating his masterpieces. He spoke about breeding different kinds of plants over and over again until he achieved the desired result through careful planning and experimentation. John watched with fascination as Sherlock's worked.

"Remarkable!" he'd mutter and Sherlock would turn his bright eyes on him and smile a little.

"That's not what most people say about my work," he told John after his third or fourth exclamation.

"Why not?" he wondered. "You're one of the most brilliant scientists I've ever seen. The miracles you've performed, at least from what I've heard at school are amazing."

"That may be, but most people are still terrified of the substances I work with. Small minds can't see the possibilities that these plants can provide us with if we just open our minds to them," Sherlock replied and went back to his work.

John spent a great deal of time at Sherlock's side, learning and helping as much as possible. He even began to neglect his studies at Oxford to spend more time in the garden. Sherlock began to praise his work and John beamed with pride at each kind word. He sometimes caught himself watching Sherlock working and speculating on what was going through the man's mind.

Once or twice, John even caught himself wondering if Sherlock was ever lonely in his strange scientific pursuits. He didn't seem to have any friends or family other than Mary and he kept himself very much apart from her. In fact, John had rarely ever seen them together. Sherlock wore no ring no and never seem to go out in the evenings.

After Sherlock dismissed him each night, John left through the front door and re-entered the garden through the secret door. And, each evening Mary came out from the house to tend to her sister flower and walk with him throughout the garden.

John waited for these moments all day. But, with all this intimate familiarity, there was still a deep reserve in Mary's manner. John felt himself falling deeper and deeper in love with her and thought she might feel the same way. She looked at him with such longing that he felt he could sense the love she felt pouring directly from her soul to his. They talked of so many things and shared more with each other each night. John had never felt that another person completed him the way Mary did but something still troubled him.

Even though their love seemed to grow daily, there had never been one seal of lips, no clasp of hands, nor any slightest caress, between them. He had never touched one of the gleaming ringlets of her hair; her beautiful dress had never even waved against him by a breeze. On the few occasions when John had seemed tempted to overstep the limit and draw her into a kiss, Mary grew so stern, and gave him a sad such a look of desolate separation, he drew back and said, "I'm sorry….I didn't mean."

And Mary would say, "I can't; I'm not ready." And John would pull back almost as if stung. When this happened, he was startled at the horrible suspicions that rose, monster-like, out of the caverns of his heart, and stared him in the face. During these moments, his love grew thin and faint as the morning-mist; his doubts almost overtook him and he wanted to run away from her.

But when Mary's face brightened again, after uncomfortable moment, she once again transformed from the mysterious, questionable being, whom he had watched with so much awe and horror, to the beautiful and unsophisticated girl he knew in his heart she was. He felt guilty for ever having suspected her of anything dreadful. John pushed these thoughts away each time they arose. However long it took for her to open up to him, John would wait.

Chapter 9

It was two days later and John found himself once again in Sherlock's lab. Today was different however, as the man himself seemed to be taking an unusual interest in the task he was currently performing. Sherlock has set him to make clippings from three different extremely poisonous plants. Each clipping had to be stripped a specific way so it would graft seamlessly with its fellow plants. This particular combination hadn't been tried before and Sherlock was keen to see if it could be done.

"I need the steady hands of a surgeon, John. That's why I'd like you to perform this one," he said. John's chest swelled with pride a little more than it should have at these words. He wasn't a surgeon yet but that's what he'd hoped to become before he'd been sidetracked by his newfound obsessions with Mr. and Miss Holmes.

He'd spliced the plants perfectly, according to Sherlock, and took off his gloves. Sherlock had been directly behind him looking over his shoulder and when he turned, he almost ran into him. The front of their chests were a mere inches apart. Sherlock didn't step back the way most men would and his gaze drew over him in such a way that John was momentarily taken aback. His cold eyes started at his waist and drew up slowly to meet his own. John couldn't shake the feeling he was been carefully observed, assessed and even judged for some inexplicable reason. The feeling was both thrilling and horrifying. Sherlock held his gaze for a few seconds longer and finally broke away making a satisfying "hum" as he did.

"Keep your gloves on, John." You need to repot those seedlings into the garden this evening. It's going to rain later so you'd better wear this," and here he draped a canvas raincoat protectively over his shoulders. "I don't want you catching a cold."

The action both comforted and alarmed John. Sherlock, in the entire time he'd known him, had never shown him much personal consideration. That he felt so protective of him now made John think of how possessively the man treated Mary the rare occasions when they were together. Perhaps he really had now become one of Sherlock's experiments. The warm glow of pride he'd just felt at Sherlock's praise melted and a cold shudder of apprehension took over. He put his arms into the coat and began getting ready to perform his next task.

Before he knew it, another few weeks slipped by and John realized he'd been missing more and more lectures at the university. Spring was officially over and summer had already pushed its way into the garden. Warm drowsy days replaced rainy ones. He began to notice he didn't feel well when he was away from the garden for any length of time. After his first feverish night and day, he found himself desiring to breathe the aromas and airs of the flowers. During his time with Mary, he felt strong, hale and alive.

She had taken to standing under his window and calling out to him when he'd taken too long to come back in the evenings for their walk in the garden. "John, oh John," she'd sing in her rich voice. "Where are you? What's taking so long?" and she would softly giggle. He found himself hurrying not to keep her waiting.

One bright morning he awoke to an unpleasant surprise. When he cracked open his eyes to greet the day, he saw Old professor Moriarty sitting in the one straight backed chair in his room. He'd scarcely thought of either Moriarty for weeks and would willingly have forgotten them even longer. He'd even stopped seeing any of his medical student friends. He'd hadn't seen the inside of a tavern or pub since he'd begun working for Sherlock.

His visitor began chatting carelessly, for a few moments, about the gossip of the city and the University, he acted as if he'd been invited in personally. John was so taken aback by the presence of the old man, he just sat in his night clothes and listened to him prattle on. Mrs. Hudson poked her head in for a moment and said, "I hope it all right, John. The professor was insistent to see you. He said he was a matter of some urgency….so I let him in."

"It's all right, Mrs. Hudson," he assured her. It really wasn't all right. He didn't want this man in his room any more than this strange son but he'd deal with his errant landlady later. He sighed, sat up and asked, "Is there something I can help you with, Professor?"

"You've been absent from lectures. You don't seem to be studying…. I hear you've taken up with Holmes."

"Doctor Holmes. Yes, I work for him. I haven't been feeling well lately, that's all." It was a strange lie. He felt wonderful while he was at work with Sherlock and with Mary, but strangely weak when he went anywhere else.

"I see…." The man said and stood up abruptly. "I came here because I've been reading an old classic author lately, and met with an interesting story. You may have read it. It is about an Indian prince, who sent a beautiful woman as a present to Alexander the Great. She was as lovely as the dawn, and gorgeous as the sunset. But, what set her apart from other women was a rich, floral perfume in her breath. It smelled richer than a garden of Persian roses. As you may have guessed, Alexander fell in love with this magnificent stranger, almost at first sight. But, a physician happened to be present who observed something unusual about her. A terrible secret!"

"And what was that?" asked John, turning his eyes downward to avoid those of the Professor. He thought he might already know.

"That this lovely woman," he continued, with emphasis, "had been nourished with poisons, until her whole nature was so intermixed with them, that she herself had become the deadliest poison in existence. Poison was her element of life. With that rich perfume of her breath, she blasted the very air. Her love would have been poison!-her embrace death! Is not this a marvelous tale?"

"A ridiculous story," answered John, nervously starting from his bed. "I wonder how you find time to read such nonsense, among your graver studies." Was this what Jim wouldn't tell him on the street? He felt the truth of it in his heart but couldn't, under any circumstances, allow himself to believe the reality of it.

"By the way," said the Professor, looking uneasily about him, "what is this fragrance in your apartment? Is it the perfume of your gloves there on the table? It is faint, but delicious, and yet, after all, by no means agreeable. I feel that if I were to breathe it long, it would make me ill. It is like the breath of a flower-but I see no flowers in the chamber."

"There aren't any," replied John, who had turned pale as the Professor spoke; "I think you're imagining it. Or," he added nervously, "you're getting a whiff of the flowers from next door."

"I'm not really the type to imagine fragrances like this. I've heard Dr. Holmes uses such fragrances in this tinctures and medicines. I'm sure the fair and learned Mary would minister to her patients with draughts as sweet as a maiden's breath. But woe to him that sips them!" he said shaking his head sadly.

John's face grew cloudy with anger. Professor Moriarty seemed to be alluding to something monstrous about his beloved Mary. The very thought of it tortured his soul and at the same time, gave credibility to a thousand dim suspicions, which now grinned at him like so many demons. But he strove hard to push them down below the surface where they swam and multiplied, and to respond to Professor Moriarty with a true lover's perfect faith.

"Professor, "he said, "I know you were my father's friend and I know you're trying to protect me from..." and here he couldn't finish. " I want to give you all due respect, but I can't have you speaking ill of Mary. She is a perfect and innocent soul and I…I love her!" It felt perfectly right and horribly wrong to say it out loud.

"Oh, John," said the Professor, with a calm expression of pity, "I know this wretched girl far better than yourself. I will tell you the truth in respect to the poisoner Dr. Holmes, and his poisonous daughter. Yes, poisonous as she is beautiful! Listen, for even if you do me violence, it won't silence me. That old fable of the Indian woman has become a truth, by the deep and deadly science of Sherlock Holmes, and in the person of the lovely Mary!"

John groaned and hid his face.

"Her father," spat Moriarty, "for I know that is what he calls himself even though he is not, was not restrained by any affection from offering up his "child." His brother, my friend, left her in his care to be raised as a proper young lady of London. Instead, in his insane zeal for science, he's created a new species upon the earth in the form of Mary!"

"No," he wouldn't do that to her. Yet, John knew it could be true.

"I believe he would, and now, beyond a doubt, you have been selected as the material of some new experiment. Perhaps the result is to be death-perhaps a fate more awful still! Sherlock Holmes, in the interest of pure science, will hesitate at nothing."

"It's a dream!" muttered John to himself, "surely it is a dream!" He began clawing off his nightshirt and searching for his clothes . He needed to be out of his room. He wanted to speak to Sherlock, to verify these horrible accusations.

"But," resumed the Professor, "be of good cheer, son of my friend! It is not yet too late for me to rescue you from his clutches. We might even succeed in bringing his miserable child back within the limits of ordinary nature, from which her father's madness has estranged her. Take a look at what I have brought you. In this little silver vial! One little sip of this antidote would have rendered the most virulent poisons of the Borgias as innocent as water. Give the vial, and the precious liquid within it, to Mary, and see what miracle happens."

Professor Moriarty laid a small, exquisitely wrought silver phial attached to a chain on the table, and quietly left John's room. It remained there, and John wouldn't even touch the thing for a few minutes while he stared at it. An antidote? For poison? How could a person _be_ a poison? The man was mad. He snatched up the little bottle and put it around his neck. Then, it came to him. There was an easier way to find out the truth.

John still had a few hours before he had to help Sherlock in the garden. He decided he would get dressed. He felt exceedingly good this morning. Perhaps his recent illness was now past him and he'd be able to last more than a few faint hours away from his rooms. He made his way down to breakfast where he admonished Mrs. Hudson for allowing the old professor into his bedroom. She looked properly abashed and apologized to him. "I am sorry, but he was so insistent!"

John forgave her with a smile and went outside. Before he'd gone very far, he began to feel the usual fatigue settling in. Maybe he needed a bit more rest. He wanted one thing before he headed back home. He stopped by a street vendor selling flowers. He offered her some money and the young flower girl choose a brightly coloured bunch for him. He took them in his hand and began his way back. I simply have to give these to Mary and watch them in her hand. Then, I'll know for sure one way or another, he thought grimly. He felt he might now be prepared to face the worst possible outcome and knew he must finally know the truth.

With that thought, he turned his eyes to the bouquet he held tightly in his hand. A thrill of indefinable horror shot through his frame when he saw that those dewy flowers were already beginning to droop. They looked like flowers that had been fresh and lovely, yesterday. John hovered in the middle of the street for a moment in shock and then fled back to his rooms where he and stood motionless before the mirror, staring at his own reflection. Now that he could breathe in the fragrances of the garden's flowers, he already felt better. While his face, his body radiated good health the poor bouquet looked dead and withered.

He remembered the old professor's remark about the fragrance in his chamber. It must have been the poison in his breath! Then he shuddered-shuddered at himself! Recovering from his stupor, he began to watch a spider busily at work, hanging its web from a corner of the apartment. It's delicate web work had crossed and re-crossing the interwoven lines to create a beautiful web. It was as vigorous and active a spider as ever dangled from an old ceiling. John stood on his bed and directed a long, deep breath towards the insect. The spider suddenly ceased its weaving, and the web vibrated with a tremor. Again John sent forth another breath, this one deeper, and longer. He tried to fill his breath with all the venomous feeling of his heart. The spider convulsed its limbs, and hung dead across the window.

"I'm cursed!" he cried out to the room. "I'm so poisonous I can kill deadly insects with my breath." At last John understood and fully believed what his heart would not let him look at all this time. He and Mary were now alike and both in possession of a dreadful and deadly affliction. Was this Sherlock's plan all along? Did Mary know? How could she not?

At that moment, a rich, sweet voice came floating up from the garden: "John! Where are you? You're late. Come down!"

"Yes," muttered John to the room. "She is the only person my breath won't kill! Although, I wish it would!"

Chapter 10

Notes:

Some mild dub-con elements here.

He rushed down and was soon standing before her bright and loving eyes. It struck him now that he looked at her innocent face that she could not be the evil thing he imagined her to be. He saw only love coming from her and now concern at seeing his current, dark expression.

He wanted to flail at her, shout at her and yes even accuse her of working to change him into the evil thing he now seemed to be. If her poisonous nature had caused her to spend her entire life hidden away in this garden, then must this now be his home too? But, as he looked into her eyes, he softened. Maybe she had known, but could he blame her for wanting a companion to share in her lonely existence?

John's rage dampened into a quiet sullenness. Mary drew back a little. It seemed she sensed a gulf of blackness between them. They walked on together, sad and silent, and finally arrived at the marble fountain. John looked at his and Mary's reflection in the pool of water on the ground. He inhaled deeply noticing for the first time that he eagerly enjoyed breathing in the fragrance of the deadly, golden shrub.

"Mary," asked he abruptly, "where did this particular plant come from?"

"My father created it," she answered, simply.

"You mean he bred it with other plants?" said John trying to keep a level of reasonableness in his voice.

"You know that he is a man who holds the secrets of nature," replied Mary, "and, a little after I arrived at this house, this plant sprang from the soil. He told me it was the offspring of his science, of his intellect. He said my arrival was fortuitous because while I was now his earthly child, this flowering shrub was the product of his science. Somehow, he entwined us together. Don't touch it!" she cried, observing with terror that John was getting closer to the shrub.

"It has terrible properties. But I, dearest John-I grew up and blossomed with the plant, and was nourished with its breath. It was my sister, and I loved it like I would any other human. I must warn you that however marvelous this association might be, it has an awful doom."

Here John frowned so that Mary paused and trembled. But she shook her head as if to clear her doubts and decided that now was the time to finally tell what she had been keeping to herself.

"There was a price," she continued, "the effect of my father's fatal love of science cut me off me from all other humans. That is, until the fates brought you into my life on that fateful afternoon. I had no idea how lonely I was until you came along to show me such kindness."

"Was it unbearable?" asked John keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

"Only lately did I know how hard it was," she answered tenderly, coming closer to him than she had ever done before. "Before I saw you, my heart was quiet. I didn't know enough about love to know how much love I didn't have. And in that sense, you've increased my doom a hundred times over."

At this John couldn't hold it in any longer. "You've cursed me!" he spat at her with venomous scorn and anger. "So you admit you found yourself so lonely that you'd doom me to a life like yours? You've enticed me into this hell of unspeakable horror!"

"John, no. What are you talking about?" said Mary, turning pale. At his outburst, Mary sat on a marble bench with her head in her hands.

Even though John noticed her obvious distress, he kept shouting at her, "Yes, you poisonous thing! It was your fault. You've blasted me and filled my veins with as much poison as yours. You've made me as hateful, as ugly, as loathsome and deadly a creature as yourself. I'm now as much a hideous monstrosity as you! Now-if our breath is as deadly to ourselves as it is to all others…" and here John pulled Mary up from the bench to face him.

She uttered a shriek and tried to pull back from him. "No, you'll die…You'll"

But John cut her off with a kiss. He pressed his soft, thin lips to her full mouth and kissed deeply. She opened to him with a soft moan. John felt it contained both horror and passion, that same heady mixture that had attracted her to him to begin with. She tried to pull away again but he held her firmly to him pressing his chest against her soft breasts. As he breathed in the fragrance of her, he felt himself become aroused. Her poisonous breath actually seemed to increase his desire for her. He kissed along her neck drawing small inarticulate cries from her. His hands slipped down to her slender waist and he drew her even closer.

He drew back for a moment and saw tears sliding down her face. He couldn't help himself and licked them off each cheek. His tongue tingled with an undercurrent of electricity and he swallowed them greedily. She gasped at this, "Oh no! It can't be."

"Don't bother telling me you didn't know, Mary," he said now breathing heavily. "You knew I'd become this, thing!"

Mary finally pulled away from his grasp and stood a few feet away from him head bowed. "Dear God, please help me. I had no idea…"

"Don't you dare bring God into this, Mary! Any prayers coming from your lips would taint the atmosphere with death. God has no part in this garden," he said cutting her off.

She once again put her hands over her face and sobbed inconsolably.

John felt no pity for her. His brain still burned with the vision of the curled up, dead spider in its web. "Better yet, why don't we go to church, and dip our fingers in the holy water. Everyone who comes after us will die as by a pestilence. Let us make crosses in the air! It will be like scattering poisonous curses in the shape of holy symbols! Don't you dare pretend innocence," said John. "Look! This at power have I gained from you!"

Just then, a swarm of summer-insects came flitting through the air in search of the food promised by the flower-odors of the fatal garden. They circled round John's head attracted by the plants growing there. He pushed out a deep breath among them, and smiled bitterly at Mary when as at least two dozen insects fell dead upon the ground.

"I see it! I see it!" Mary now shrieked. "This is Sherlock's doing. Never, never! I only dreamed to love you, and be with you for a short while and then let you leave me. I only wanted a loving memory to keep with me for the rest of my unnatural life. John, please believe me, even though my body is nourished with poison, my spirit isn't evil. I wouldn't have done this for an eternity of bliss with you."

At her words John felt all the built up frustration and passion he'd had for her overcome him. He stepped forward again and gathered her in his arms. He felt twin desires to protect her and ravish her. He felt no faintness or sickness from touching her. He suspected he wouldn't and felt the great weight of all his unlived years falling heavily on him. He'd be trapped in this garden with Mary and she with him. Could he swallow his future hopes for this? She laid her golden head on his shoulder and sighed deeply.

"Look at me," John commanded.

Mary met his blue eyes steadily. "You and I are the same now. No more secrets."

"No, I'll tell you everything I know, which isn't as much as you seem to think," she said and drew her mouth closer to his. "Would it be so bad?" she asked gently touching his lips with her own.

John knew the answer to that was yes, it was an utter horror but he couldn't seem to think with her so near and allowed himself to fall into her embrace again. He'd kiss her now and think about it all later, later when his arms weren't full of this exotic bouquet of desire.

Chapter 11

John bent his head to breathe in more of Mary's exotic scent and trace his lips down her neck and jaw when a small movement in the shrubbery near the house caught his eye. There stood Sherlock staring directly at him and Mary. He wore an expression of intense scrutiny mixed with something indiscernible. John's brain cleared a bit and he moved away from the heady perfume the beautiful girl in his arms seemed to exude.

Then, he remembered the elixir in the phial around his neck. Professor Moriarty's antidote could save them both! Suddenly, fearful that Sherlock might stride through the garden and rip it from his fingers, he took the small silver flask from around his neck and held it tightly in his hands.

"Mary," he said directly into her ear. "Mary, listen. I have something here that might help us both."

"What is it?" she asked turning her innocent gaze up to his.

"A wise friend, a Professor, gave me this to give to you. He said it is an antidote for poison. Our fate is not yet so desperate as it might seem." And here John laughed and felt the dreadful oppressive fear lift from him. Maybe it would be still be all right.

Mary looked directly into his eyes and he saw them widen a little. She looked at the small precious phial in his hands and then back to his eyes. Her gaze softened and she let out a little sigh. Sherlock kept his place and didn't approach them. He'd seen the kiss and must know now that things had changed between them.

"It's made from ingredients opposite from the ones Sherlock has been infusing you…..us with all this time. It's distilled of blessed, healthful herbs. We'll drink it together, yes? We'll be purified from this evil." John couldn't let anything stand in the way of this hope. He must get her to drink the antidote. It would be the only way to bring her back into the realm of the real and then, he'd follow right behind her. They could fix all of this.

He looked back at Sherlock and found the man's gaze had shifted in intensity. Sherlock's ice blue eyes had narrowed and his fine, arched brows furrowed as he tried to identify what John held in his hand. Finally, he left the archway and began making his way toward them. John's heart sped up. Time… John decided he had no more time. She must drink now or her fateful father would put a stop to it and he might never get another chance.

"Mary," he half moaned, half whispered. "Sherlock has seen us. He's coming "

"Give to me," Mary said snatching the phial from his fingers. "Let me drink first!"

"There's enough for both of us…" John began but Mary had uncorked the small bottle and had it quickly to her lips. Sherlock caught the swift movement and he quickened his pace marching quickly to close the distance between them. She swallowed and put the back of her hand to her mouth as if it had burned her. "Oh," she said and her eyes widened again.

As he drew near, the pale man of science seemed to gaze with a triumphant expression at the beautiful youth and maiden he held in his arms, as might an artist who had spent his life in achieving a beautiful work of art, and finally be satisfied with his success. He preened over them both with conscious power, he spread out his hands over them, in the attitude of a father imploring a blessing upon his children. But those were the same hands that had thrown poison into the stream of their lives! John trembled with suppressed rage. Mary shuddered at his approach, and pressed her hand upon her heart.

"My daughter…Mary" Sherlock said expansively, "I've given you the most wonderful gift. You are no longer lonely in the world!" He took a step closer to them both and placed one gloved finger under her chin which had drooped to her chest. "Pick one of those precious gems from your sister shrub and pin it on your bridegroom. It won't harm him now."

"How could you?" John said holding the now trembling Mary tightly to his chest protectively. "How could you do this to her? To me?"

"John, my science and the love you two share have worked together in a way I couldn't possibly have imagined. And you, precious daughter of my pride and triumph, who stand apart from common, ordinary women, have now found a bridegroom worthy of you!"

"But father," Mary spoke now her voice no louder than a whisper, "I never wanted to be different or set apart. I only wanted…"

Sherlock cut her off, "I've been searching for years, YEARS for a potential mate for you!" He began to pace back and forth in front of them. "It is a father's sole purpose in life to provide a good husband for his daughter. One who will be a perfect match, provide a safe haven for her and be able to produce children. Ah, and what children you will produce."

John held Mary tighter, "Children?" his mind reeled at the thought of the offspring he and Mary might produce in their current state. "Sherlock, you can't want to produce more miserable creatures like us?"

"Miserable!" he exclaimed. "I've given you both the gift to pass mightily through this world, most dear to one another, and dreadful to anyone who might want to harm you." Do you think it misery to be endowed with marvelous gifts which no enemy could withstand? Is it misery to be able to quell the mightiest with a breath? Misery, Mary, to be as terrible as you are beautiful."

"Yes, miserable," John shouted at him. You've made it so we can't leave this garden. We can't be among other people without killing them. How is that not miserable?"

Sherlock stopped suddenly and turned his intense gaze back on the trembling Mary. "Would you have preferred me leaving you as I found you? Your father, my brother, abandoned you to your fate. He gave you to me without ever looking back. No one else wanted you. He left you alone with me to look after you, take you in and …..love you. Yes, Mary I do love you and I only wanted you to be able to withstand all the evil in this world. I've seen so much evil in my work with Scotland Yard and I never wanted any of it to touch you. You were so small, and weak. I had no idea what to do for you. I had to find a way to make you strong enough to survive this miserable world."

"I would have been loved, not feared," murmured Mary, sinking down upon the ground.-"But now it doesn't matter; I am going, father, where the evil, which you've mingled with my being, will pass away like a dream-like the fragrance of these poisonous flowers.

Here Sherlock finally saw Mary's condition and looked down at the small bottle clutched in her hands. "John, what have you given her?"

"Antidote, Sherlock," she said and smiled wanly. "He wanted to cure me. Isn't that sweet?" She lay back on the garden floor still looking as lovely as one of the glorious flowers adorning the shrub next to her. Her eyes closed and she lay still."

Both men knelt beside her. John's heart nearly stopped as he saw how still she was. He shook her calling, "Mary! No, what's wrong with her?"

Sherlock took off his glove and placed one finger on the pulse point on her neck and quickly took it off again as if he'd been burned. "Her pulse is faint." He took the bottle from her fingers and sniffed the contents. He closed his eyes and a look of unimaginable sadness fell over him. A single tear dropped from the corner of one eye. "If she drank this, then I believe she's dying," he said standing up.

John looked at Sherlock's stricken face and croaked, "No, she's not. Fix it, please. I didn't know it would hurt her. He said it would cure her. Mary, please don't go."

As he gathered her up in his arms, her eyelids fluttered open one last time. "Farewell, my John! Your words of hatred for me, us….are like lead within my heart-but they, too, will fall away as I ascend. Oh, was there not, from the first, more poison in thy nature than in mine?" she said and closed her eyes for the last time.

Notes:

Loosely based on the story Rappaccini's Daughter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. (Many liberties taken) This will be a loose adaption of Hawthorne's story. I'd appreciate all comments. Thanks for reading!


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